Alice's Secret Read online

  Alice’s Secret

  Lynne Francis

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  www.harpercollins.co.uk

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  HarperCollinsPublishers

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  www.harpercollins.co.uk

  First published in Great Britain in ebook format by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018

  Copyright © Lynne Francis 2017

  Cover design © Alison Groom 2017

  Cover image © Shutterstock.com

  Lynne Francis asserts the moral right to

  be identified as the author of this work

  A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

  Ebook Edition © March 2018 ISBN: 9780008244286

  Version: 2018-01-09

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Part Two

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Part Three

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Part Four

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Five

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Part Six

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Part Seven

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Eight

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Part Nine

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Epilogue

  Recipes

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Keep Reading…

  About the Publisher

  To my children, for growing up and giving me the time to write.

  Prologue

  Summer 1893

  Alice felt the hem of her skirt getting wetter and heavier as she brushed through the bracken. This summer had been damp and it had rained hard last night. The fern fronds continued to grow and unfurl across the path, no matter how many of them passed to and from the mill each day. She hated the feel of the sodden wool against her legs. It would bother her all morning until it dried: the smell of the wet cloth, the chafing. She sighed. She’d be working in the weaving shed this morning. It would feel cold at first with the door open, and no easy way to dry off.

  Alice clutched her shawl tighter around her shoulders and hooked the basket into the crook of her arm. She lifted it clear of the foliage, which was still heavy with rain. Her work clogs bounced in the bottom of the basket, along with her lantern, and a crust of bread loosely wrapped in rough cloth. Her mother had pressed the bread into Alice’s hand with a brusque, ‘On your way. You’ll not get through the day without it. We’ll manage.’ Then she’d limped her way painfully to the grate to set the kettle on the hob. Alice’s brothers and sisters would have to make do with tea and porridge until tomorrow.

  Tomorrow: Alice shuddered. It was the day that they lined up in front of Williams, the overlooker, as he counted the florins, shillings and pennies into their hands. She thought about how Williams used to look meaningfully at her as he dispensed the coins. He’d close her palm around them, letting his fingers linger just that moment too long. She’d been aware of his eyes following her as she moved around the mill or bent to her machine in the weaver’s shed. He’d made a point of singling her out for praise for her work, so that the other girls had noticed and teased her, making her anxious. Betty Ackroyd had drawn Alice to one side. ‘Alice, you need to watch yourself with Williams,’ she’d warned. ‘He’s got an eye for the young girls here. He don’t take no for an answer.’

  Despite Betty’s warning, Alice had been unperturbed when, as she collected her lantern one evening to start the long journey home, Williams had summonsed her.

  ‘Alice, in here a moment,’ he’d said, holding open the door to the office. She’d stepped into the warm glow of the room, startled when the door snapped shut behind her and she found herself pinned against it. She’d tried to shut out what came next – rough bristles against her cheek and neck, panting, heat, hands fumbling at her buttons, tugging at her skirt.

  She’d no idea how she had broken free. She dimly remembered Albert coming into the room by the other door – a muffled shout. She remembered fleeing up the path, no time to light her lantern, and having to pick her way home in the dark. She was stumbling, weeping, horrified –frightened of slipping off the path but more fearful of what lay behind.

  After that, Williams had started to lie in wait for Alice: pouncing on her in dark storerooms where she’d been sent on pointless errands, trying to corner her on her way home. For weeks, she’d had to submit to his pestering, sickened by his actions, furious with herself. Then she’d found the strength to fight against him, to threaten to report him, to stand up to him. Williams didn’t take kindly to having his advances spurned. He made a point of picking on Alice: for faults in her spinning, for talking too loudly, for smiling. She’d shrunk in on herself, making sure that she didn’t set a foot wrong, that she left each evening along with Ivy and Betty, parting ways a little further up the path. Williams still found fault. He dropped the coins in her hand on pay day now, glaring at he
r. He watched her like a hawk, checking to see what time she arrived each morning.

  Alice picked up her pace, trying to lift her skirt clear of the bracken. She’d been late twice already this week, her mother too sick to get the children up in the morning. Williams had warned her that one more day’s lateness would mean the loss of her job. This morning, she was late again. It was too dangerous to run, the grey stones slippery after the rain, the surface uneven. She’d reached the Druid Stone, only a short distance to go now. She knew every twist and turn of the path, had names for the landmarks along the way. Just the Packhorse Steps to negotiate now. Maybe Williams would be distracted this morning? Maybe she could slip in, unnoticed?

  At that moment, her feet flew from beneath her. It was a hard fall. Alice’s basket bounced down the steps, her lantern smashed, bread flung into the bracken. The rushing tumble of the river over the falls sounded loudly in her ears. Sharp stones pressed into her cheek; cold, damp moss pillowed her neck. Alice lay still.

  Part One

  Chapter One

  ‘Oh, my goodness.’ Kate, Alys’s mother, had stopped, cup halfway to her lips, peering at the screen over the top of her glasses. She’d got a new pair of those ready-readers, Alys noticed. Bright-green frames this time: they worked rather well with her silver hair. Kate said that she kept losing them, so that was why she needed to buy more pairs, but Alys suspected that they were a fashion accessory rather than a necessity. Alys had once picked up a pair belonging to her mother and looked through them. The lenses could just as well have been plain glass for all the difference they seemed to make.

  ‘What’s up, Mum?’ Alys was only half interested. She was used to her mother’s exclamations. Kate had a tendency to be alarmed by the warnings of fraud scams or deadly computer viruses emailed to her by her friends.

  ‘It’s your Aunt Moira,’ said Kate, glancing up at her youngest daughter over the top of her laptop screen. She paused a moment, arrested – as usual – by Alys’s appearance. Wild hair, scraped back into an elastic band, from which crinkly blonde curls escaped at random. Forget-me-not blue cardigan, rather shrunken, buttoned over one of her signature crêpe-de-Chine dresses, orange flowered this time. 1940s vintage, surely. Where did she get them from? Kate wondered. And not a scrap of make-up, at a guess. Kate favoured the woven- or knitted-linen look once spring had arrived, in the sort of tasteful shades that also graced her walls. She couldn’t understand her daughter’s taste and style – or rather, her lack of it. She must have inherited it from her father’s side of the family, Kate decided.

  ‘She’s had a bad fall. Hurt her hip and shoulder and put her back out. The doctor said she’ll need to rest for a couple of weeks at least, but she’s got the café to run. Looks as though she might have to close it, just as the holiday season is about to arrive. It’s her busiest time – she sounds pretty upset.’

  Kate chewed her lip and frowned. She really ought to offer to go up and help her sister out. She mentally ran through her diary for the next few weeks. Since she’d retired, it seemed as though she was busier than ever. Voluntary work at the hospital, her book group and walking group. The garden-committee trip to Sissinghurst, planning and preparations for the village carnival. Kate smiled wryly to herself. When had she become so middle class? ‘Must have been when I married David,’ she thought, then was dragged back to the present by Alys, saying ‘Mum? What should we do?’

  ‘Well, I really should go up and help her,’ said Kate, picking up her cup and absently sipping the cooling tea. ‘But I’ve got so much on over the next few weeks. And you know how I feel about Yorkshire …’ She tailed off, expecting Alys to laugh, but instead her daughter was gazing into space, clearly caught up in her own thoughts.

  ‘I’ll go,’ she said, unexpectedly.

  Kate stared at her. ‘But darling, do you have any holiday owing to you? You’ve only just come back from your trip with Tim? I’m sure Moira would be grateful, but by the sound of it a week, or even two, won’t be enough. Although I suppose I could take over after you leave?’ Kate mentally prepared herself to go into martyr mode.

  ‘The thing is, Mum –’ Alys suddenly looked apprehensive. ‘I came here today to tell you something.’ She paused. Kate looked at her expectantly, her mind racing ahead. Could Alys and Tim have decided to settle down together at last, start a family? Alys was in her mid-thirties now – she really couldn’t afford to leave it much longer. Of course, she’d have to sell that tiny house of hers, lovely garden or not. Heaven knows Tim must earn enough, with that job of his in the city. Maybe Alys was already pregnant? Kate tried to see if there was a bump in evidence, but that shapeless dress made it impossible to tell. She calculated rapidly. It would be an autumn baby, so that would work perfectly. She’d have time to rearrange a few things and she’d still be able to help out at the Christmas Fair, the carol concert, make the mulled wine and mince pies. The run-up to Christmas was always such a busy time.

  ‘Mum!’

  Kate snapped back to attention again. Alys had been talking. ‘Mum, did you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, no – sorry, darling. So, where will you and Tim live?’

  Alys looked at her blankly. ‘Mum, you really weren’t listening, were you? I told you. I’ve given up my job. I need a break from Tim, from London. I hadn’t planned what I was going to do. A bit of travelling, perhaps. I can delay that, though, and go and help Aunt Moira for a couple of months. I’d be glad to. You know I’ve always loved it up there. And, of course, I wouldn’t expect any payment.’

  Alys felt a small burst of excitement at the thought. She’d given up her job as a graphic designer almost on a whim, although the plan had been taking shape in the back of her mind for some time. Days spent staring at a computer screen held no joy for her, and that tricky work issue had finally helped to make her mind up. She’d been putting money aside for a while now, supposedly so she could move from her little house – the closest thing to a cottage that she’d been able to find in London – but really with half a mind to doing something completely different. Travel, voluntary service overseas, who knows? Alys was restless. She knew Kate would say that it was her biological clock ticking and that it was time she settled down and started a family. But she wasn’t entirely sure that Tim was the right person for her.

  Nice, well-brought-up Tim, with his warehouse flat and a good job in the city that took him abroad a lot. Great salary. Good prospects. She’d purposely set out to look for someone other than the sensitive, creative types that she normally fell for. She’d succeeded. Tim was stable and solvent but he was also boring.

  It was Alys’s turn to come back to earth with a bump.

  ‘Alys, whatever were you thinking of?’ demanded Kate. ‘Here we are, with good jobs hard to come by, and you throw yours away! Have you gone mad? I don’t know what your father will say!’

  Alys allowed herself a wry smile. Her father would be too busy on the golf course or at the Rotary Club meetings to pay much attention to what she was up to. As far as he was concerned, his three children were off his hands now they were grown up. He’d step in if he had to, but really, he felt that he’d done his duty by them. Of course, it went without saying that Kate and all of them would be well provided for should anything happen to him.

  Alys pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘Well, I’d say it’s rather good timing myself, considering Aunt Moira’s situation. Look, you email her back and say I’ll be there by Tuesday. I’ll head back to London, sort out a few things at the house, book my ticket and I’ll be on my way.’

  And with that, Alys left the kitchen, leaving Kate stunned, staring blankly at her computer screen. The kitchen door opened again. It was Alys, the rucksack that served as her handbag in hand.

  ‘I’ll be off, then. There’s a train back to London in twenty minutes. If I leave now I’ll just make it. Love to Dad. I’ll be in touch when I’m in Yorkshire, to let you know how Auntie Moira’s doing.’ And then Alys was gone.

  Kate, still
reeling after the swift turn of events, noted that the hem was coming down at the back of Alys’s dress. And those army boots looked like they’d not seen any polish in a long, long while.

  Chapter Two

  The interior of King’s Cross station seemed to have been rebuilt when Alys arrived there, which was baffling. Surely the last time that she’d been up to Yorkshire it was as reassuringly familiar as it had been for the last twenty or thirty years? She struggled to get her bearings, disconcerted. She queued in WHSmith for a book of stamps, needing to post a letter before she left, only to discover that the new station seemed to lack a postbox. After dragging her suitcase around outside in the pouring rain, in the hope of spotting a familiar red pillar box, Alys gave up, wet through and anxious about time passing.

  If she’d been travelling with Tim, of course, he would have been at the station far enough in advance to lunch nearby, having worked out beforehand where to eat. His packing would have been well-practised perfection. He would have had exactly the right amount of clothes, with one set to spare. He wouldn’t have had to unzip his case eight times before leaving the house to stuff in more shoes and a hairbrush, then take the shoes out again and put in two jumpers, then take one of the jumpers out and put in a T-shirt instead. Indecision wasn’t Tim’s thing.